ORZ in Taiwan

(Part 2 of 4)

 

It's official: we've changed the name of the band to One Room Zero.  From now on, we refuse to play any festivals or cultural events unless at least five of us can share a single room.  Really, it's the only way to achieve maximum comfort.  Timothy and Josh can comfortably spoon each other in one bed, while Taylor and I battle for space on another full-sized bed.  Olivier, being the oldest, and occasionally the wisest, gets his own bed.

After yesterday's delicious octopus and mach-intestine breakfast, the five of us ventured off the dude ranch and onto a narrow street that led to "town."  It's generally rainy or at least misty in the morning--it's the rainy season--but by noon, the clouds are usually gone, and then you begin to wish it was still raining.  Nonetheless, the skies cleared just in time for us to find the center of town—a couple of crossroads with various open-aired noodle joints, markets, and loose, running dogs.  Olivier wanted to find a new jacket, so I spotted a small shop that not only had the usual shelves of untranslatable liquor bottles, but also rows of thin-pressed garments stacked upon each other--each individually sealed in a thin plastic bag.  "Olivier, I found your jacket," I said, holding up a tan-colored thing with an elastic waist.  It looked like something you would see on an old man walking through Chinatown with his hands behind his back.  Gee, I wonder why?  Olivier tried it on, and we all agreed that it was perfect fit... for Olivier.  And it was only a mere 250 Taiwanese dollars ($7.50 US). The shop owner seemed to understand English a bit better than most of the other villagers we had encountered, so I decided to ask him if he could recommend a good noodle shop.  Considering that they were on just about every street corner, I figured some local advice might be the way to go.  I'm not sure how true this actually proved to be since I'm fairly certain he just walked us around the corner to his sister's shop.  (Actually, I don't know if was his sister.  But it was definitely a friend or family member's.)  Regardless, we all sat at a round table and ordered our lunch.  Two options: pan fried noodles, or noodle soup.  We alternated our orders with the intention of sharing.  A young man stood at a counter (which separated the street from the garage-like interior) and ladled various items into a large wok.  The five of us sat at the table feeling like a lost military battalion on our day off.  Plates were set in front of us—noodles with various mollusks, seaweed, shrimp, squid, and lots of garlic.  Mmmmmm!  I handed the shop owner (who had continued to hover over us while we ordered) a One Ring Zero postcard.  At first he was confused, and then he was thrilled.  He showed it to everybody in the vicinity, including a small child who had been watching us eat while blowing up a plastic glove to look like a cow's udder.  The man ran back to his clothing/liquor shop, and then returned a minute later with a bunch of bananas.  "Eat Banana!" he said, "You need to be strong to play music, yes?"  "Yes," we said.  And then we all mumbled, "Xie Xie" or something like that, which means thank you.

After walking through town a bit more, we contemplated renting scooters, but then decided we were all too jet-lagged and it might not be the smartest move.  Maybe another day.  Instead, we walked back home, stopping along the way to pick up some chocolate, yogurt, a bottle of untranslatable liquor, and a bottle of water.  Back at the dude ranch, the festival had begun to pick up.  Large buses were unloading countless young people in front of the Howdy House. The kids flooded the lobby and stood in line to pick up their entry passes and guide books.  We returned to our cabin, and, on the way, met several other white musicians (Americans, New Zealanders, Australians, etc.).  Turns out the festival had put most of us honkeys on the same stretch, where we could all party in English, I guess? The band in the cabin next to us was from Massachusetts.  They were called Lowercase P.  They had arrived in Taipei the day before and then driven the six hour journey to Kenting  Park, stopping along the way for massages, which they described as young ladies hanging from metal bars and walking across their backs.  We shared our strange liquor with them, and they shared some kind of gum/seed thing with us, which they had bought on their trek down.  With no list of ingredients, the gum (similar to Betel Nut) was in a small container with pictures of naked Asian women on the cover.  The Lowercase P guys explained to us that you chew on it and spit out the first mouthful of black juice.  Then you swallow the rest, and it keeps you awake.  "All the truck drivers chew on it!"  I, of course, put one in my mouth and gave it a go.  It sort of tasted like the fennel you eat on your way out of an Indian restaurant.  Not bad.  Can't say it had much of a stimulating effect on me, however.   With the strange gum in our mouths, we finished off the bottle of Taiwanese liquor, and then I cracked open my bottle of water, realizing I needed to hydrate.  I took a giant swig, and then immediately spat it out.  It was another bottle of the exact same liquor!!  This time, however, it was in a plastic bottle that looked no different from any other bottle of water.  Ha ha!

Last night, all of the shows began.  Giant stages, each large enough to host a David Bowie concert, lit up and blasted, for the most part, distorted guitars and heavy drums.  The Taiwanese love their punk-rock music.  We, however, didn't.  Instead, the five of us found the dude ranch’s secret basement arcade.   Jackpot!  A six-lane bowling
alley, ping-pong tables, pool tables, an archery room, a shooting range, and just about any other ridiculous thing you can possibly imagine.  Taiwan!  Our favorite game, we quickly discovered, was this strange video game that looked like Super Mario Brothers, but had two taiko drums protruding from the front.  After inserting coins, a song began to play and a row of colorfully animated objects bounced across the screen.  As the animated balls rolled in front of the small Japanese drummer boy, the players (One Ring Zero!) would pound on the drum.  Two could play at once.  The songs would get increasingly more difficult.  It was fantastic!  We couldn't get enough.  We played it for three hours straight.  We missed most of the bad punk-rock music, drunk Taiwanese kids riding the mechanical bull, and walking around eating meat on sticks.  We played a taiko video game instead.  Eventually, Olivier and Josh began to develop tendonitis, and we had
to stop.